


To Justice

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual, Spark Sex, Tactile, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infuriated by the Autobots’ inability to dispose of Megatron, Prowl seeks a less orthodox solution… which rapidly escalates out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Justice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by an amazing piece of art by Tumblr user sinterface: http://sinterface.tumblr.com/post/89695775818/so-for-botcon-2014-me-and-a-few-other-con-goers

Prowl stepped out of his ship and immediately re-calibrated his heat sinks as biting wind whipped through the gaps in his armor. His feet sank into the thick layer of frozen liquid covering the ground, forcing a slight shuffle to his steps. The cold, bright sun offered no respite. Adjusting his optics to compensate for the glare off the snow, Prowl spotted a squat network of structures a short distance away: the Delphi medical outpost. He’d had no choice but to estimate its location, as all of the facility’s communication equipment had ceased to function. Nearby was an equally abandoned energon mine. The mine was nowhere near dry, but operations had never restarted. Now that he was here, Prowl understood why. As much as he hated such superstitious talk, it made sense that some might ascribe an eerie, haunted air to this place-- no doubt the result of what had transpired here. Knowing now what they hadn’t then, Autobot leadership nixed the idea of sending any more workers to this facility. They closed the books on the whole matter. Turned the page. No one wanted to delve too deeply into what happened. 

 

Prowl had, though. Not only what had happened, but who caused it. The only inhabitants of Messatine-- mechs so feared that no one else dared share a planet with them. Mechs who, given the right catalyst, could do what Optimus Prime and the rest of the Autobots had failed at: bringing the worst war criminal in the universe to justice.

 

Contacting the Decepticon Justice Division had been a daunting task, but Prowl was patient. The Constructicons had finally proven themselves useful in helping him pinpoint Decepticon-only comm channels. When he finally reached the audio sensor of Kaon, the connection was weak and staticky. But it was enough for Prowl to tell Kaon of a new traitor, of a betrayal so deep it promised to shake the very foundations of Decepticon ideology. Kaon was no fool, and he was skeptical. But Prowl was clever and persuasive. In the end Kaon had agreed to arrange meeting with Tarn.

 

A meeting which Prowl was now trying very hard not to regret. He repeatedly told himself that the DJD were really only a threat to the targets on their List. And once Prowl had presented his evidence to Tarn he had no doubt that the DJD would promptly forget him, preoccupied as they’d be with far more serious matters. But now, standing in front of the smashed front gate of Delphi, under the fractured red X warning of the plague that had ravaged the personnel here, no amount of rationalizing could fully dispel the irritating twinges of fear. 

 

The plague, at least, was no longer a threat. It wasn’t airborne after the initial sonic boom and there were no longer any infected patients here to spread it through physical contact. Prowl sniffed as he ducked inside the broken gate. Snow had blown in and piled against the walls, partially burying equipment and furniture. The few remaining lights flickered. Snowflakes swirled through their dim beams. 

 

Prowl’s goal was what used to be the private office of Pharma. Located in the center of the facility, Prowl guessed it was probably still in reasonable condition. He wound his way through abandoned hallways, unconsciously grimacing with disgust at the spatters of rust and dried energon that decorated the walls and floor. His weapons systems were online and ready; for what exactly, he didn’t know, but they stubbornly refused to power down. 

 

The hallway ended at a sealed door. Prowl studied the dirty nameplate next to it: 

 

DELPHI MEDICAL OUTPOST

PRIVATE OFFICE OF

CHIEF MEDIC PHARMA

 

Prowl’s lip curled when he read that name. Pharma was a wretched traitor who’d gotten far better than he deserved. 

 

There didn’t appear to be any way to open the door from the outside. Prowl raised a fist to knock, but had scarcely done so when the door hissed open. In surprisng contrast to the dingy halls, the office was well-lit and clean. The datapads on the desk were undisturbed, stacked in an tidy fashion. That tiny speck of order in this chaos of filth provided an ever so slight comfort to Prowl. 

 

Which was promptly shattered when he noticed the sprawling, plush couch along the side wall-- and who was sitting on it. 

 

Prowl fought to keep his ventilations calm and even as Tarn turned to face him. The Decepticon’s optics glowed like smelters through the shadowy holes in his mask. His frame was heavy, broad, powerful. His mostly purple and black plating had a matte finish and reflected no light. The room suddenly seemed much smaller. 

 

“Ah, Prowl, is that you?” Tarn greeted him, “I’m pleased you were able to find this place. I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

 

Prowl wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. The Decepticon spoke to him as if they were old friends. His voice was rich and warm and inviting; jarring, given his intimidating appearance.

 

“Yes,” Prowl responded curtly.

 

“Well then. Don’t be shy,” Tarn gestured expansively to the couch and the low table in front of it, on which sat an ornate bottle and two cubes. “Come. Sit with me. Let us talk.”

 

Jaw clenched, Prowl did as he was told. 

 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he played along, hoping he sounded sincere. 

 

If he didn’t, Tarn took no notice. He poured from the bottle, filling the two cubes with shimmering pink liquid. He offered one cube to Prowl, who took it somewhat hesitantly. This was a rare and expensive vintage of high-grade. Astonishing that it had survived the war at all. It also seemed like the sort of luxurious indulgence that ran contrary to Megatron’s teachings of austerity, but Prowl figured it would be unwise to broach that particular topic. 

 

Tarn lifted his own cube in a toast. “To justice.”

 

Prowl mimicked the gesture and the words, but stalled when the cube reached his lips. Tarn took a small, slurping sip through the narrow opening in his mask and watched Prowl with critical optics. 

 

“I’d never be so rude as to poison a guest at my own table,” Tarn laughed. It was a rollicking, jovial sound, but something about it made the edges of Prowl’s spark curl. “Such a crass, plebeian means of execution. Now, please. Drink with me.”

 

Sitting this close to Tarn, Prowl was acutely aware of the size difference between them. He wasn’t a small mech and was definitely not accustomed to being loomed over. Prowl took a swig from his cube. Bright, clean flavor with just a hint of sweetness bloomed over his tongue. It had been vorns since he’d tasted anything so fine.

 

“Delightful, isn’t it?” Tarn said, “It’s one of the last batches to come out of the Iaconian tower refineries.”

 

Prowl shifted awkwardly. He hadn’t come here for chit-chat. He never went _anywhere_ for chit-chat. Yet Tarn’s optics burned into him expectantly.

 

“How did you get it?” Prowl blurted. 

 

“We took Iacon early in the war, and easily. It was inhabited by complacent, lazy fools.  They were so _ungrateful_. Did you know they took high-grade like this for granted? Our great Lord and Liberator Megatron, Primus protect his spark, was generous enough to share with his troops,” Tarn said, animated and conversational. 

 

Prowl had distinctly different memories of Iacon, and what the Decepticons did to it, but held his tongue. He said flatly, “Very generous.”

 

“Ah, but where are my manners?” Tarn chuckled. Another sip, another slurp. “You came here with a specific purpose. Far be it from me to waste your _valuable_ time.”

 

The intensity of Tarn’s gaze made Prowl uncomfortable. He felt oddly vulnerable before the Decepticon, stripped somehow. He had to press on. With the mention of Megatron, Tarn had given him an opening.

 

“Justice,” Prowl said, clearing his throat, “is the reason I’m here. There has been an... egregious failure of justice.”

 

“Oh indeed. The Autobots’ pathetic excuse for a justice system is nothing _but_ failure. I can never decide which part I find more amusing: the part where a pair of overpaid buffoons bloviate about the vices and virtues of the ‘accused’, as they say, or the part where they let a handful of riff-raff determine his fate,” Tarn concluded with a full-on belly laugh and a clap to Prowl’s shoulder. Prowl bristled at the mockery. 

 

“The right to an unbiased trial before a jury of one’s peers is the very _definition_ of justice. Your torture theatre is nothing but a lazy parody,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. 

 

Tarn did not appear the least bit ruffled. He was silent and intent, head tilted slightly as if listening very carefully. For what, Prowl couldn’t detect. He heard no sound other than his own ventilations. After a moment Tarn’s optics re-focused on Prowl, and he clapped his hands together. 

 

“There we are. Now. Perhaps I misunderstood you, _Prowl_ , but moments ago you mentioned that an ‘egregious failure of justice’ was the very reason you sought me out,” Tarn said. There was no trace of anger or malice in his voice; he still sounded friendly, cajoling.

 

But something was wrong. 

 

Prowl made a raw, choked sound and startled up ramrod straight as his spark quivered in its casing. It was a sickening feeling. Not pain; something far worse. It was like a tug on a stray thread that threatened to unravel an entire tapestry. 

 

Prowl grit his teeth, dug his fingers into couch. It would absolutely not do to show weakness in front of Tarn. “This case was a rare exception.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Tarn said merrily, “That’s how it always starts. Just an exception here, an exception there. Isn’t it amazing how easily exceptions become rules?”

 

Prowl could feel his spark throb in a disturbingly intimate cadence as Tarn spoke. Spark manipulation was for lovers, something Prowl hadn’t indulged in since his split with Chromedome. This was horrifying, alien, yet close enough that his frame had already begun to heat up. 

 

“ _One_ exception,” Prowl ground out, “I’m nothing like you.”

 

“Oh no, of course not,” Tarn replied indulgently, “Clearly, you’re a mech who values efficiency-- otherwise, you’d never seek to circumvent your people’s own convoluted institutions. You have a problem, and it seems you would have the _Decepticon Justice Division_ solve it for you.”

 

Prowl caught himself listing to one side. He fought the urge to claw at his chest in an irrational attempt to relieve the growing heat and pressure within his spark. It was not quite pain yet, but close. An itch on the inside that he couldn’t scratch. 

 

“No system is perfect. Not the Autobot system. Not even... yours,” Prowl hissed, “And a mistake happened. A mech who deserved to die was set free.”

 

“Oh. What a pity.”

 

“He was a Decepticon!” Prowl barked, hating the way his vocalizations rose in pitch, “ _Was!_ He... he... turned his back on... the Decepticons...  on you... We caught him first.”

 

“Mmmm,” Tarn hummed. 

 

Prowl nearly screamed. Condensation dripped from his armor. Ragged ventilations and frantically whirring fans couldn’t take the edge off. It felt like his internal circuitry was melting, that his spark itself was a star going nova. 

 

“You caught him and... let him go,” Tarn continued, his voice growing softer and deeper. The sound was so heavy, so consuming, that Prowl swore he could’ve reached out and touched it, felt it draping around his frame like an suffocating blanket. 

 

“Yes, an egregious failure indeed. And now you think a little _torture theatre_ is just the ticket,” Tarn chuckled. 

 

Head lolling, Prowl’s back arched, presenting his chest. Metal ground audibly against metal as he viciously overrode command after command to open his spark chamber. 

 

Through the openings in his mask, the corners of Tarn’s optics crinkled as he smiled. “You’ll have to tell me this ‘traitor’s’ name then, _Prowl_. We have a List, you know. We’re quite busy.”

 

The sound of his name, purred so sumptuously, was his downfall. Spears of blinding light pierced through a hairline split in his chest plating and a defeated whine squeezed out of his vocalizer. Tarn closed in. He planted one hand on the couch next to Prowl’s thigh.

 

“Pardon me, I didn’t quite catch that...”

 

Tarn teased a finger down the narrow opening in his victim’s chest, coaxing it wider.

 

“Stop. _Stop!_ ” Prowl snarled. He rerouted more power to his weapons systems and the missile turrets on his shoulders whirred as they pivoted to aim at Tarn.

 

“‘Stop’? I don’t recall anyone by that name on the List,” Tarn mocked him, completely undaunted by the threat. 

 

Each syllable was like an electrowhip licking across the very core of Prowl’s being. It was a pain so deep, so unlike anything he’d known before. And Primus, that sound... that awful, broken sound... His own screams.

 

The maddeningly gentle caresses to his chest never let up. Thick purple fingers worked their way inside, then eased the plating further apart. 

 

“Such a bright spark...” Tarn sighed sweetly, watching it swirl and pulse in its casing. 

 

“Th-the... t-traitor.. It’s... it’s... Megaah _AHHH_!” Prowl lost it when Tarn pushed deeper inside and began to comb his fingers through the buzzing corona of energy radiating from his spark. Garbled static poured from his vocalizer when his chest plating flew apart with a loud _clang_. Disgust and horror roiled his fuel tanks as the most intimate part of himself was fully bared to the monster before him. He felt disembodied, as if his own frame were an inanimate puppet and his mind a helpless spectator. 

 

A large hand came to rest on Prowl’s thigh, and he involuntarily jerked away from it, lashing out blindly with his fists. Tarn easily deflected the assault and laughed again. 

 

“Mmm, for a moment it rather sounded like you were going to say _Megatron_. And that, my sweet Prowl, is how I _know_ you’re lying to me.”

 

“I-it’s not a lie! You’re delusional-- _ohhh!_ Primus damn you, _stop!_ ” Prowl rasped in a dry sob. 

 

The hand on his thigh wandered firmly upward and inward to tease at the open armor seam at his hip joint. Tarn was even closer now, so close that Prowl could feel the vibration of his engines. 

 

He bent down, mask nuzzling the side of Prowl’s helm in a parody of lover’s affection. Directly against Prowl’s audio sensor, he murmured, “Oh, but I don’t think you want me to...”

 

The pure sound of those words was so sweet, so sensual, that Prowl’s processor nearly agreed. His spark already had. Tarn worked his fingers into the seam at Prowl’s hip, pinching and tugging the wires there with masterful gentleness. A slave to impulse, the black and white frame pressed closer in search of more stimulation. Tarn gave a pleased purr-- he loved watching a victim dance for him-- and slid his hand fully into Prowl’s chest to cup and fondle his spark itself. 

 

“I think you want me to make you _overload._ ”

 

Prowl clutched desperately at Tarn’s treads as the charge in his circuits reached a critical level. His entire frame spasmed as his spark released pent-up energy in long, undulating waves. His jaw hung open, slack and silent, as his optics flared to white, then began to flicker erratically. Rivers of fire burned through his energon lines and the sensations crescendoed again and again, relentless. His optical feed blurred with red errors. Tarn’s mask was all he could see, that loathsome purple insignia with its twin smelting pools... and in the end, the darkness engulfed even them. 

 

____________________

 

Prowl came back online slowly. Optical feed, intact. Structural damage read-out, negative. All internal systems functioning within nominal range. His processor, however, felt sluggish and hazy. He sat up from his sprawled position on the couch and rubbed the back of his hand across his faceplates. Tarn was gone. The high-grade was gone. It was as if he’d never been here at all. 

 

But Prowl’s gaping spark chamber provided a horrifying confirmation that Tarn most definitely had been here. Been inside him. Prowl reeled in rage and disgust, at himself as much as Tarn, and slammed his plating shut. He had to get out of here. He didn’t believe in miracles, and had no interest in finding out exactly why Tarn had spared him. Exiting the office in a rather ungainly scramble, Prowl transformed in the hallway and peeled off with a screech of tires. He drove like Unicron himself was in pursuit, drifting wildly around corners. He didn’t stop until he was well clear of the broken gate and his tires began to spin and slip in the snow. He stumbled when he transformed, but kept running until he reached his ship. 

 

The door was open. Prowl could’ve sworn he’d closed it. Hadn’t he? He pinched the bridge of his nose and cycled a slow ventilation. He couldn’t let this get to him. He’d taken a calculated risk, it had not paid off, and now he’d have to explore other options to dispose of Megatron. That was all. Stepping on board, he noticed that the door separating the cockpit from the small cargo hold in the rear of the ship was closed. That, he knew, had been open during his journey here. Suspicious, he looked to the weapon rack hanging on the cockpit’s back wall. A few handheld blasters, a heavier explosive launcher, a wicked-looking sniper rifle... 

 

_Sniper rifle?_

 

Prowl rarely used sniper rifles, and had certainly had no reason to bring one along on this mission. Flipping through his memory files of research on the DJD, Prowl’s fuel tank churned when he reviewed their alt modes. 

 

A soft chime sounded, indicating that the ship’s intercom system had been activated. Prowl startled violently and bolted for the door of the ship, only to find that it was now closed and sealed. Then he heard it again, slightly muffled through the intercom: the voice of his tormentor, the voice that would haunt his nightmares for vorns to come.

 

“You are being deceived...”

 


End file.
